


The Place of the Skull

by ishafel



Category: The Dresden Files (TV)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 23:29:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1282666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the sex is the easy part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Place of the Skull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miriam_Heddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriam_Heddy/gifts).



Sometimes the hardest part of having sex is figuring out the logistics. I mean, if one of you is corporeal and one of you isn't-- that makes things a little challenging. By the time you've gone through a couple of dozen grimoires, translated ancient spells from Aramaic to Latin to English, tried a couple of promising rituals, and run through half your supply of candles and all of your cheetah hair-- well, at that point, it's hard to feel too sexy. Nothing kills a mood faster than arcane rites written in blood on human skin, or whatever it was my great-grandfather used that looks like blood and human skin.

And Bob...well, for someone who claims to want this as much (or, technically, a thousand times more, since he hasn't had sex in an unthinkably long time, and all that) Bob isn't as much help as he could be. I think he just doesn't want to get his hopes up. Well, maybe it isn't just his hopes he doesn't want to get up. Maybe it's-- maybe it's not as hard as I thought, actually, staying horny while I do research. In fact--. 

I'm not even sure when it started. Make that, I'm not even sure when it started for me. Bob's made it pretty clear it started for him this last year, which is good. Because, I mean, I met him when I was eleven. But I wish I could remember when I stopped admiring the grace of his hands as he demonstrated some tricky bit of wand work, and started thinking about how the hands would feel on my body. Or how they would feel, period.

It would be bad enough if I just had a thing for a ghost. I mean, you might be thinking I go out of my way to make life harder for myself, and you might be right. Bob is four or five hundred years older than me-- he says a gentleman never tells -- and he's more less my best friend and my only family. Which makes me a special kind of stupid. I know that. 

The thing is, I get laid a lot. For a guy without a college education or a regular income or a working cell phone, at least. This isn't just sex. This could be something else. I want this to be something else. And I never give up, but I'm starting to run out of hope of this happening. At least while I'm young enough to enjoy it. 

That's when Bob says, “Do you know, I believe there is something else we can try.”

There's really nothing I can say to that except “And you didn't think to mention this earlier?”

I think Bob actually blushes, which may be a first. It's also adorable, although I'm not quite brave enough to mention that. “Okay,” I say instead. “Let's hear it.”

“It's a bit delicate, I'm afraid,” Bob says apologetically. “But I was thinking-- suppose we do it without touching. You know. Like telephone sex, only without the telephone?” In point of fact, I don't know. Phones tend not to work for very long around me. It's an energy thing. But it's worth a try, I guess. “How do we start?” I say.

“I think we'd better go upstairs to the bedroom,” Bob says, and right away I know he's given this a lot of thought. A lot. Which can only be good, right?

So I go up and lie down on my back on the bed, and try not to think of England. In fact, I try not to think of anything. It isn't actually that hard, because I'm terrified. I don't remember being this nervous my first time with a woman, or even my first time with a man. But this is different. This is Bob. This one matters.

“Close your eyes,” he says, and I do. It does make things easier.

“Good,” he says. “Now take off your shirt and unbutton your jeans.” There's something about his voice that usually makes me think of velvet. Tonight it's leather, smooth and strong and sharp as a whip. I don't dare disobey.

“Touch yourself,” he says. “Make sure I can see you. It isn't your hand, Harry, it's mine.”

My right hand pinches one of my nipples, hard. My left slides down to my cock. But Bob is right. They aren't my hands anymore. They don't even feel like my hands. They feel like Bob's, they feel the way his voice feels. My hand--his hand-- my hand slides me out of my boxers and I arch my hips and thrust into the warmth of it, already half hard.

“Yes,” Bob says. “I can see you like that.” His voice is as dry as ever, but I can tell even without opening my eyes that he's drifted closer, so close that if he could be touching me he would be. “Keep doing it.”

He doesn't have to tell me twice. In fact, he doesn't really have to tell me at all, because my hand is moving up and down my cock independent of my brain. This isn't going to take long. I lie back and stroke myself, and I'm glad he didn't tell me to use lube because even without it I'm not going to last long. I feel like I'm in a trance, like Bob's voice has hypnotized me, almost, so that all I can do is enjoy the ride.

And I am enjoying it. Really, really enjoying it. This is nothing like jerking off, having Bob telling me what to do, having Bob watching me. The only thing I'm sorry about is that I'm not going to be able to return the favor. I'd like to see Bob like this, Bob's face twisting, his hand flying up and down on his cock, his back bowed as he fucks someone who isn't there. 

But if I never have that, if I never have anything else but this, if I never get to kiss Bob, never feel his weight against me, his dick inside me-- well, at least I've had this. And this is as close as two people can be.


End file.
